reflection of the moon or streetlamp for a flame.
“Are you worried that it’s still after you?” he asked.
The dog woofed once, quietly.
“Well, I don’t think it is,” Travis said. “I don’t think you understand how far
north we’ve come. We had wheels, but it would have, had to follow on foot, which
it couldn’t have done. Whatever it was, it’s far behind us, Einstein, far down
there in Orange County, with no way of knowing where we’ve gone. You don’t have
to worry about it any more. You understand?”
Einstein nuzzled and licked Travis’s hand as if reassured and grateful. But he
looked out the window again and issued a barely audible whimper.
Travis had to coax him back into the bedroom. There, the dog wanted to lie on
the bed beside his master, and in the interest of calming the animal, Travis did
not object.
Wind murmured and moaned in the bungalow’s eaves.
Now and then the house creaked with ordinary middle-of-the-night settling
noises.
Engine purring, tires whispering, a car went by on the street.
Exhausted from the emotional as well as the physical exertions of the day,
Travis was soon asleep.
Near dawn he came half awake and realized that Einstein was at the bedroom
window again, keeping watch. He murmured the retriever’s name and wearily patted
the mattress. But Einstein remained on guard, and Travis drifted off once more.
FOUR
1
The day following her encounter with Art Streck, Nora Devon went for a long
walk, intending to explore parts of the city that she had never seen before. She
had taken short walks with Violet once a week. Since the old woman’s death, Nora
still went out, though less often, and she never ventured farther than six or
eight blocks from home. Today, she would go much farther. This was to be the
first small step in a long journey toward liberation and self-respect.
Before setting out, she considered having a light lunch later at a restaurant
chosen at random along the way. But she had never been in a restaurant. The
prospect of dealing with a waiter and dining in the company of strangers was
daunting. Instead, she packed one apple, one orange, and two oatmeal cookies in
a small paper bag. She would eat lunch alone, in a park somewhere. Even that
would be revolutionary. One small step at a time.
The sky was clear. The air was warm. With vivid green spring growth, the trees
looked fresh; they stirred in a breeze just strong enough to take the searing
edge off the hot sunlight.
As Nora strolled past the well-kept houses, the vast majority of which were in
one style of Spanish architecture or another, she looked at doors and windows
with a new curiosity, wondering about the people who lived within. Were they
happy? Sad? In love? What music and books did they enjoy? What food? Were they
planning vacations to exotic places, evenings at the theater, visits to
nightclubs?
She had never wondered about them before because she had known their lives and
hers would never cross. Wondering about them would have been a
waste of time and effort. But now.
When she encountered other walkers, she kept her head down and averted her face,
as she had always done before, but after a while she found the Courage to look
at some of them. She was surprised when many smiled at her and said hello. In
time, she was even more surprised when she heard herself respond.
At the county courthouse she paused to admire the yellow blossoms of the Yucca
plants and the rich red bougainvillea that climbed the stucco wall and twined
through the ornate wrought-iron grille over one of the tall windows.
At the Santa Barbara Mission, built in 1815, she stood at the foot of the
front steps and studied the handsome façade of the old church. She explored the
courtyard with its Sacred Garden and climbed the west bell tower.
Gradually, she began to understand why, in some of the many books she had read,
Santa Barbara had been called one of the most beautiful places on earth. She had
lived there nearly all her life, but because she had cowered in the Devon house